


One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

by celluloid



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloid/pseuds/celluloid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce gets low again. Really, really low. He tries to do something about that, but none of the Avengers will let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Avengers kink meme way back in June '12. Original prompt/fill:
> 
> http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=8545157t8545157

The gun dangles limply in his hand. Black market, of course: nobody needs to know who he is or what he’s buying. As long as things are kept off the books, it’s okay.

Bruce is sitting in some abandoned corner of the Tower. It doesn’t really matter where, and truth be told, he isn’t entirely sure where he is. All he knows is his back is in a corner. One of the edges is a solid wall while the other is a window.

It’s night, and New York’s lights shine back out at him, full of colour and life. Mocking him. _You don’t get this._ His peripheral vision takes note of them, dull gaze barely registering them as a medley of irrelevant, inconsequential blurs.

For once, everything is silent. Either Tony has managed to figure out a successful way to soundproof the walls, or everyone is asleep. Everyone except him of course. He doesn’t need sleep when he’s been on autopilot the past few weeks.

He lets the weapon dangle from one finger. Of course it’s loaded. Of course the safety isn’t on.

He’s been hiding down in his lab, at first unconsciously avoiding his teammates until he realized exactly what he was doing. Then it became conscious. He wasn’t even really working on anything. It was simply a place to be, because he had to be somewhere.

His stomach growls at him. He ignores it. Hasn’t eaten in days. Doesn’t really intend to eat again. He knows he will, but the very thought of it makes his insides churn in disgust; makes his brain send off confusing signals of both desire and repulsion.

Bruce shuts his eyes, removing the mockery of the outside world. He could smash the window, and with glass embedded in his fist and hand bleeding simply tumble out of it, smash into the pavement below, and let the world finally take his mangled corpse.

(Except that can’t happen. He’d tried it once in Malaysia, falling from over 1000 feet. It didn’t turn out well for anybody.)

There’s the side of him that’s in a constant state that just wants it to end. Then there’s the other side of him, angry at this attitude. The anger fuels the giving up. He’s stuck in a never-ending cycle.

And really, that just makes him angrier.

Because of course it does.

Bruce grasps the weapon with his hand. He raises the barrel to his lips, but proceeds no further.

The first time he’d done this the cool of the metal had been comforting: _finally_. But then he’d woken up from it, and had been able to do nothing more than stare outwards, blankly, eyes dead to the world and yet obviously not.

The feeling rushes back to him, makes him open his mouth, makes it slip inside. He wraps his lips around it and just sits there, doing nothing more.

He doesn’t have the heart to pull the trigger. The damage that would surely result doesn’t stop him from doing it; the futility of it does.

Bruce opens his eyes. He knows he’s home. This is the closest thing to a home he’s ever had. (Which might be causing this – home has never meant anything good.)

People who like him. People who aren’t scared of him, or at the very least understand him. An adoptive family. (Except he’s been in that scenario before, because even though they were blood relatives, they still weren’t his parents, and then it reminds him of how he ended up in his aunt’s care in the first place.)

So the things that normally make people feel safe and happy just remind him of why he’s never been? When he gets to experience it – for the first time, really – all it does is remind him of what he dealt with instead?

It’s an understatement to say that it pisses him off.

Of course.

The barrel presses against the inside of his cheek. Really, he’s tried this one before. He should look at something new.

Bruce closes his eyes and breathes softly, chest barely rising and falling. He tilts the angle, feels it tickle the roof of his mouth.

When the sun comes up and nobody has been anywhere near him, Bruce sighs and removes the gun from his mouth. He lets it dangle in his hand as he quietly makes his way back to his room. He returns it to his resting place: under his pillow, always within close reach, not that it will ever be able to harm or protect him from anything.

It isn’t even much of a comfort anymore.

He sleeps the entire day.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce starts awake when a thundering knock sounds on his door.

“Green One!” the thunderous voice booms from the other side. “May I enter?”

“Huh what,” Bruce mumbles, flopping over onto his back. Apparently that was permission, because the door opens and Thor is striding into his room. Bruce sits up and rubs at his eyes, reaching for his glasses. “What—What time—“

“It is nightfall,” Thor says, “and yet, I have not seen you once today. Are humans not supposed to sleep at night and rise when it is light?”

Bruce blinks a few times to get the sleep out of his eyes. “Well, yes, but I don’t usually—“

“Ah, that is correct,” Thor interrupts him. “The Man of Iron does this as well, does he not? Do all men of this ‘science’ keep strange hours?”

“Not all of them,” Bruce says, still trying to figure out what is going on.

Thor waves his hand, dismissing the idea. “It does not matter. Come; if you have slept all day, then that means you have not eaten. I was sent to find you, but I myself also wish to feast. We shall break bread together!” With that he leaves the room, presumably headed for the kitchen. Bruce blinks before getting up – it doesn’t look like he’s going to have any choice in this.

He stumbles his way in, willing his stomach to be silent so Thor doesn’t end up stuffing him. The demigod in question is retrieving a box of Pop Tarts. “Uh, Thor,” Bruce says, “that’s typically a breakfast food.”

“Yes,” Thor agrees, “and you are breaking your fast now.”

Bruce figures he can’t really argue with that logic. He waits, letting Thor do the work. The toaster is one of the few appliances he has mastered, which probably explains, at least in part, the affinity for Pop Tarts.

His stomach growls while they wait. Bruce glances away immediately, but is still able to catch Thor’s look and raised eyebrow in his peripheral vision. It’s probably even worse that Thor doesn’t comment on it, but Bruce decides to take it as a blessing. There’s no need to go into detail on how he’s starving himself (because maybe that’ll kill him).

He really doesn’t want to eat. He’s a few days in on this project and it’ll take several more yet to finish his test, but he doesn’t have an out here.

And honestly, when the Pop Tarts are done and Thor passes him one and he takes a bite out of it, it feels good. He hates that it feels good, but it’s just so warm and filling and brings a small bit of life back to his body. Bruce nods while Thor rambles in between bites about how Asgard really could learn a thing or two about Midgardian cuisine. He thinks of all the gigantic, powerful beings from Thor’s home opening the cardboard boxes, tearing apart the foil packaging and gathering around small toasters, and can’t help but smile at the mental image.

He’s still hungry when he finishes but he’s not going to say anything, stuck in between these weird feelings of discomfort and contentment. Bruce thinks about maybe going back to sleep, but he’s spent all day asleep and now he’s just digested a decent amount of sugar, so that isn’t likely to happen any time soon. Normally he’d find some excuse to dismiss himself and head to his lab to work on something, but… he has nothing to work on. Doesn’t want to work on anything.

It’s just so inane. There’s nothing he could do to help the world any more than killing himself, and while the lab is likely the best place he could work out a solution for that – a lab was responsible for his creation, it’s only makes sense that it’ll be responsible for his end as well – but that requires thinking and he just. Doesn’t want to think. Is tired of thinking. Nobody else has to think this much to kill themselves. And he genuinely wants to die, so why—

And then Thor is grabbing his wrist, and Bruce shakes his head as he’s being dragged away, suddenly aware that Thor had been talking the entire time and he’d completely spaced out. Really, he does just want to sleep, he could make it happen…

Bruce is able to pull his wrist away from Thor’s grasp. His legs operate at a much quicker pace in order to be able to keep up with the demigod. “Wait, where are we going?”

“To the television!” Thor says. “The Man of Iron and I have been discussing different items as of late, and he has assured me that middle of the night movie marathons are, in fact, a common practice. He suggested we have one. And, since you have been asleep all day, you should join us!”

“What—“ Bruce starts to say, only to be cut off by Tony’s voice.

“Finally!”

The Blu-Ray icon is bouncing all over the giant flat screen in front of him. Tony’s lounging on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table, surrounded by a ridiculous variety of popcorn, chips, pop, and beer. He grins and waves when he sees them. “Banner’s joining us? Good. Awesome. This is perfect.”

Bruce looks around, confused. “Wait, what are we watching?”

“ _Wrath of Khan_. Then _Search for Spock_. Then _Voyage Home_ ,” Tony says, happily. “And if we’re all still up then _Undiscovered Country_ after. We don’t need to watch _Final Frontier_ ”

“But what if I wish to see it?” Thor asks.

“Nobody needs to see _Final Frontier_ ,” Bruce mutters. Tony points at him.

“See, this guy gets it.” Tony brings his hand up to the side of his mouth, points at Thor with his other hand, and dramatically whispers, “He watched _The Motion Picture_ of his own free will.”

Bruce involuntarily shudders as Thor protests, “It was next on the list…”

Something finally clicks in Bruce’s head as they join Tony on the couch. “Wait,” he says, “when did this happen? I mean, Thor and Star Trek? What?”

Tony shrugs. “He wanted to know more about pop culture. I figured I should get him started on the good stuff.”

“It is a most excellent series!” Thor says, grinning broadly. “I enjoy the idea of exploration in order to learn. Even if they do not engage in combat every time, it is still fascinating. It reminds me of my first days on Midgard, in a way.” He pauses in thought. “Some day I will bring you all to Asgard, and you may feel what I felt.”

“Oh, oh,” Tony says, excited, “dibs on Kirk. I get to be Kirk.” He looks at Bruce. “You can be McCoy. It’s a perfect fit. Doctor, always angry…”

Bruce snorts. “Who’s our Spock, then?”

Thor ponders over this. “Perhaps the Widow,” he says. Both Bruce and Tony turn to stare at him. He shrugs. “She operates in a manner as logical as he.”

“Oh god, do you think she knows the Vulcan nerve pinch?” Tony asks, cringing.

“Yes,” Thor answers, deadly serious.

A collective shudder goes through the three of them, and suddenly Bruce finds himself wanting to make this moment last as long as possible. It’s kind of like the Pop Tart: not completely welcome, but it just makes him feel better. He’s decided, now, that the idea of feeling better is more appealing than the desire to curl up on his bed again and lie awake, pondering ways to die in his misery.

He’s been isolated from people for a very long time. He’d imposed another isolation from his teammates on himself. But he’s having fun, now.

“Who’re you?” he asks Thor, grabbing the bowl of Doritos for himself because why the hell not?

Tony answers for him. “He’s totally Scotty. He’s fun and can drink anyone under the table.” Thor beams at this.

When they’re nearing the end of _Wrath of Khan_ , Bruce pointedly ignores Thor’s glance at him when McCoy warns Spock of radiation poisoning. Harder to ignore, however, is the way Thor is suddenly clinging to him with the grip only the God of Thunder could muster as Kirk and Spock exchange their final goodbyes, as they press their hands together through the glass, as Spock slumps against the glass. He glances behind Thor to see Tony desperately blinking to avoid tears. Thor, on the other hand, is weeping openly, and gripping Bruce even more tightly.

Bruce thinks that there has to be a lot wrong with him if the only emotion he can muster is to feel jealous of Spock.

But everything gets better. Spock comes back (so maybe he shouldn’t be too jealous of him after all), and Thor ends up laughing so much during _Voyage Home_ that Clint comes down to yell at them for waking him up, only to get mad that they didn’t invite him to this and to steal a bowl of popcorn and join them for the rest of the movie. 

They don’t make it to _Undiscovered Country_ as Thor drops off sometime during the credits of _Voyage Home_ , slumping over Bruce, one arm still wrapped around him.

And Bruce isn’t sure how to feel about that. About this night. Because really, he enjoyed himself. There were a few moments here and there, but ultimately Thor forcefully dragging him out of his self-imposed isolation was… fun. And he feels better.

He still wants to die, of course. It would be better for everybody if he did. After all, Spock and Kirk said it themselves: _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one._ It’s just… logical.

But the fact that he can appreciate this sentiment gives him pause. Because he wouldn’t have watched that movie again had it not been for Thor, who evidently wanted him around.

Bruce falls asleep under the weight of a demigod, thoroughly confused.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up, disoriented, with rubble poking into his bare back and a pounding headache. Some kind soul from above his crater has thoughtfully thrown a spare pair of pants towards him, and Bruce grabs at them immediately, hastily getting into them before he leaves himself exposed any longer.

The sun is high overhead, which means that it’s the afternoon. When Bruce is able to hoist himself up and poke his head out of the small hole the other guy seems to have made for him, the first thing he notices is Tony, suit and all, having a very animated conversation with Fury. Steve, also dressed in full gear, stands off to the side, occasionally having to dodge Tony’s exaggerated arm movements.

“You are back!” he hears from above him, and swivels his head around to see Thor, arm extended to bring him back up on ground level. Bruce takes it, digging his feet into the walls of his little crater to come back up.

“Uh, yeah,” Bruce replies, still a little groggy. He brings one hand up to rub at the back of his head. He knows better than to ask what happened. It’s pretty obvious. There was an attack, the Avengers came in and took care of it; he helped. It happens a lot. He doesn’t need to know the specifics of every incident.

Although, Fury is here, at the site, so that means he’s probably going to end up finding out sooner or later anyway.

Bruce looks in the other direction to see Clint and Natasha casually lounging on some upturned pavement at the edge of the street. His eyes are immediately drawn towards Clint’s arm: his lack of sleeves provide no protection, and it’s all the more obvious considering the ridiculous scrape exhibited upon the limb, all angry and red and probably with flecks of gravel embedded in it.

Clint catches him staring and cheerfully waves at him with his other hand. Bruce slowly waves back before he remembers that he actually is capable of practicing medicine, and nobody else around is bothering to take a look at him, so he jogs over.

Bruce hisses through his teeth when he gets to see Clint’s arm up close. The outer side of it is ripped up and partially shredded, but at least he doesn’t seem to be bleeding.

“Already got some kickass painkillers,” Clint says casually. “I think I’m just waiting for some bandages, really.”

“You’ll also need the rocks removed,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, I’ll also need the rocks remo—Whoa, how long have those been in there?”

Bruce ends up being the one to do it, sitting at one corner of the briefing table with Clint. He’s thankful for the distraction, really, because most of what Fury is talking about is going completely over his head. He also just doesn’t care all that much; unless it’s something huge and of consequence, it’s harder and harder to really be all that concerned about foiling whatever bullshit the random villain of the week has thought up.

So instead he sits there, picking at Clint’s arm with a pair of tweezers, staring at the wound throughout the entire thing. His ears catch hints of the words “Hulk” and “demolished” and “civilians” in an order he isn’t particularly fond of, so he blocks it out on purpose. Has to. He’s trying to make up for anyone he’s hurt by ensuring that Clint’s arm doesn’t get infected.

Because that’s equal.

By the time the meeting is over, he’s gotten Clint’s arm bandaged up, removing the wound from exposure.

He’s in the bathroom connected to his room in the Tower pretty much the second they return to it, digging around for the scalpel he knows he has stashed in here. He just can’t get the image of Clint’s bloodied arm out of his head. Doesn’t want to. It’s taken up permanent residence in his brain, just arm and red and it’s so _obvious_ and yet he’s never tried it before.

The only other things Bruce can think about are _best not to make a mess_ and _remember, radioactive_. Other than that he just acts. He sticks his arm out over the far too expansive bathtub Tony’s put in here for him and with his opposite hand reaches out and stabs down, slicing his arm open from the wrist up, hitting the artery and feeling relief and lightheadedness as his heart works to pump his blood out.

It hurts, but he feels calm. Seeing his blood rush out of his body is more freeing than he ever would have thought it could be. His breathing is calm and even as he watches, his gaze starting to lose focus, the clarity that had been there before fading away, edges going dark—

No.

He has to let out a small laugh as he sees his blood beginning to coagulate on his arm. Right before his eyes, all along the artery he’d sliced open – and it’s healing itself. He’s barely lost anything, there’s hardly been any time, and yet the bleeding is stopping. He isn’t going to lose enough.

“Really,” he says out loud, actually amused as his body slumps over, arm still hanging over the bathtub. He hears the final drips, and thinks, _Next time, I’m ingesting a warehouse’s worth of blood thinners,_ before he loses consciousness.

The only blessing that comes from this is that when he wakes up, he’s still in the same position: slumped over a bathtub that has a shallow pool of his blood resting inside.

And, well, that’s why he didn’t want to make a mess. Because now he has to clean and dispose of radioactive waste.

Maybe that’s why he’d never tried it this way before.

He sighs and reaches up to run a hand through his hair in frustration, only to stop dead in his tracks when he catches sight of his forearm.

That’s definitely going to leave a mark nobody else needs to see.

He can’t think like this. He needs to eat. Thor’s already made him break his fast; he can start a new one up again later, but right now he needs all of his mental faculties about him because that pool of blood in his bathtub is a pretty big problem.

So Bruce gets dressed and makes his way down to the kitchen, hoping to just find a granola bar and maybe make some tea or something. Natasha’s the only other one there, sitting at the table and reading. She doesn’t lift her eyes from her book so he doesn’t bother to greet her; he’s going to be in and out, anyway.

That’s why when she suddenly speaks up he fumbles and nearly spills hot water on himself.

“Your sleeves are rolled down,” she says.

“What?”

She looks up and fixes him with an invasive gaze. “Your sleeves,” she repeats. “They’re down. You always have them rolled up.”

“Oh,” Bruce says, keeping his face neutral. “Is this a problem?”

She puts her book down, giving him her full attention. “It depends on what’s underneath.”

A staring contest emerges. Bruce meets her gaze head-on, not batting an eye. Likewise, Natasha does the same, looking at him as though she can see right through him.

He’s the first one to break eye contact, returning to his tea preparation. He still feels her eyes on him the entire time, and he simultaneously feels both conscious and not of the cut in his arm.

He leaves without looking at her again; without saying another word. He does have a problem to take care of, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce is avoiding Natasha.

He’s avoiding everyone, really, but especially Natasha.

He’d gathered up as much of his spilled blood as he could and contained it in a corner in his lab. It’s there, just for him, a constant reminder of yet another failed attempt.

He stares at it.

Lately he’s completely holed himself up in his lab, locking himself in and refusing to come back out. He’s a few days back into starvation, though not entirely sure if it’s going to work. In the mean time he’s seeing if he can develop a pill, a drug, something that will be able to overpower the Hulk’s metabolism. After all, if he can kill the Hulk, then he himself is good as dead.

Not that he isn’t receiving any opposition along the way. Once the personified anger in the back of his mind seemed to get some idea as to what’s going on, there has been a steady stream of growls of protest.

Bruce just drowns them out by mentally flicking through other possibilities. He can’t hang himself because his green neck will definitely be the winner in the case of neck vs. rope. Likewise, a green head would break open any suicide bag with ease. Drowning is out, he’d tried self-immolation once but his green skin had easily survived that, and electrocution is very easily the worst idea of them all.

It’s all really rather depressing that there are so many ways to kill oneself, and it’s also pretty funny that he’s getting more and more depressed over not being able to kill himself. Bruce smiles, partaking in his own private joke, before turning to look back to his notes.

He might have to find a way to subtly interview Steve, but that isn’t likely to happen. So it’s just him, and his brain, and the anger always present that he is just so _tired_ of, he just wants it to _stop_ , and maybe starvation really will work—

“Doctor Banner,” JARVIS’ voice speaks up to him, and Bruce starts in surprise, “I’m afraid Master Stark is overriding your lock commands. He’ll be in your lab within the minute.”

Bruce runs a hand down his face in frustration. Or, as long as he’s living here, he won’t be given the chance to starve himself. He hides his notes before tugging down on his sleeve and resting his hands on his lap, waiting for the door to open.

It does, and Tony strides in, and he’s carrying a pizza box, and fuck but Bruce hates himself for leaning into that smell because it’s been days and he’s so hungry and it smells amazing and he just wants to _die_ so why should that pizza be smelling so good.

“Hey!” Tony says, bright and smiling and Bruce hates him. “So uh, Pepper stopped by and was asking how everyone was, and I realized I hadn’t seen you for a few days, and Pepper was like, ‘So is he eating at least?’ and I was like, ‘I dunno, probably not, we’re kind of friends that way,’ and then she yelled at _me_ for not eating and after we had that argument settled she demanded that you get something, so uh, here it is.” He sets the box down on one of the benches before leaning back against it, surveying his… lack of work. Tony’s smile turns into a thoughtful frown. “Uh, are you actually working on anything down here?”

“Not really,” Bruce shrugs, doing his best to ignore the pizza.

“Oh, great,” Tony says. “Then you should come upstairs with me. We’re still working on acquainting Steve and Thor with modern pop culture, and Clint really wanted to rewatch Star Wars, so we’re gonna do that in a few minutes. Everyone else is up there waiting.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m a little busy here, Tony—“

“Nuh uh, no you aren’t. You just said you weren’t. See, that’s why I brought the food down here with me, so I could just leave it with you if you were on a breakthrough or whatever. I was giving you an out but you don’t have a need for it so you’re coming.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

Tony fixes him with a look. “You haven’t spoken to Barton since you fixed up his arm, have you? Because he’s been ridiculously whiny. There’s the Clint that can run around shooting arrows and crawling through vents as he pleases, and then there’s the one who’s incapacitated and forced to take some time off to heal. We have the latter right now. Add on the fact that he’s also really mad he missed most of the Star Trek thing. And he specifically demanded you, so you’re not getting out of this, because I am _not_ going back up there to face him alone.”

Bruce thinks back to Natasha, her stare, her friendship with Clint, the fact that Clint is demanding his presence—and yeah, he’s definitely pissed.

“Alright then,” he says, keeping his voice level, and Tony grins back at him.

“Awesome. Thank you. You’re a life saver.” They’re partway up the stairs before Tony turns to him and says, “No, really, you might literally be a life saver right now, that man can be terrifying.”

Bruce’s smile in response is strained, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice.

When they get to the living room with the gigantic TV, they find Natasha patiently explaining to Thor that watching movies during regular daytime hours is a very common practice as well, with Steve sitting in between them and nodding at her words. Clint is lounging on a recliner, bandaged arm resting on one armrest with a massive bowl of popcorn taking up his entire lap. When he sees them he shouts out, “Hey, finally! Let’s get started!”

Bruce doesn’t miss the way his gaze seems focused on his arm. A roar fills his head as he actively resists rubbing at the sleeve he knows is concealing the cut. He’d really rather not be here.

But Thor is motioning for Bruce to come sit next to him, and he has his puppy expression on, and as surly and depressed and pissed as Bruce might be, he can’t really say no to that face.

“I’m only staying for the original trilogy,” Bruce says as he sits down, because he figures he should probably at least say something.

Clint snorts at him. “Geez, we really need to get you to interact with us more.”

At Bruce’s questioning gaze, Tony explains, “The prequels are banned from my house. Forever. No exceptions.”

“Why?” Steve asks. “What if we want to know the whole story?” Thor nods in agreement.

“Just don’t question it,” Natasha says. “You’ll be much better off.”

Bruce mostly just sits there throughout the movies, trying to mentally work out a way to overcome the other guy’s metabolism, until Vader cuts off Luke’s hand and suddenly inspiration strikes him: surely not even the other guy could recover from decapitation, right? But it would have to be done quickly on him, so as to prevent any transformation, and he wouldn’t be able to do it himself, so whoever he could get to do it for him would have to be just as suicidal as him to risk the Hulk coming out and attacking him in retaliation. And there’s an uneasiness that isn’t his in the back of his mind that needn’t be there because this obviously isn’t going to work.

He’s snapped out of his train of thought when Steve suddenly gasps, and looks back up at the screen to realize that Vader has just informed Luke that he is his father. Thor is looking around wildly to see if anyone else is reacting, his own mouth open in shock, and Tony just grins at the both of them.

“I am so proud of the two of you for being here as long as you have and not getting spoiled.”

That’s when Bruce decides to properly settle in and make the best of it. After all, he’d had fun on the Star Trek night. Maybe letting go is the solution. Watching Steve and Thor watch Star Wars is pretty fun in and of itself.

(And he’ll always have time later to work out his own biology or see if he can figure out a way to separate his head from the rest of his body. He has nothing _but_ time.)

The final hours do pass by much more quickly, though. Too quickly, if Bruce is being honest with himself. When the end credits for _Return of the Jedi_ start rolling, Steve smiles and says, “There was still some good in him. It just goes to show, pure evil doesn’t really exist.”

“Palpatine was pretty pure in his evil,” Tony points out.

Bruce is considering joining in on the Star Wars morality debate when he locks eyes with Clint, who subtly motions for him to join him outside the room. Bruce glances at Natasha, but she doesn’t seem to notice; rather, her attention appears to be focused on making her own statement. So when Clint passes by him, Bruce hesitates a few seconds before getting up to follow.

“What’s up?” Bruce asks once they’re out of earshot from the others, playing it casually in hopes that Clint actually doesn’t know or suspect anything.

“I saw your wrist when you first joined us,” Clint says, skipping all preamble. “Not much to see, but I definitely saw the cut.”

Bruce’s expression immediately darkens. “Natasha,” he says flatly.

“Kinda,” Clint says. “She didn’t say anything outright, just told me to be on the lookout – my eyes are better than hers.”

“Right,” Bruce says. “I take it that’s my cue to leave.”

Clint’s hand shoots out to grab his arm as he turns to go. “No,” Clint says, spinning him back around to face him. He looks uncomfortable, like he really has no clue what the hell to do or say, but he also looks determined, like he isn’t going to let Bruce leave without a fight. “Don’t go. I just—ah, fuck—Bruce…”

“You know,” Bruce says coldly, “you can let go of my arm any time now.”

“If I do,” Clint says, “where will you go? What will you try to do?”

Bruce just looks at him.

“I heard about your confession, on the helicarrier,” Clint continues. “Didn’t you ever… you know… try to get help?”

And Bruce barks out a laugh at that. “You want to help? You any good with a sword?”

At this, Clint glares at him. “You know that’s not what I meant. Counseling. Real help.”

“Help for what, exactly,” Bruce growls out. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have a condition that’s a bit beyond that.”

“Look,” Clint says, “I get the stigma around shrinks, okay. But you have resources available. You should take advantage of them. I’ve used them. Natasha’s used them. And they _help_.”

Bruce tugs his arm out of Clint’s grasp. “I appreciate the pep talk, but I’m working on a solution myself. I’ve got it under control.”

Before he gets the chance to leave, Clint’s grabbing his arm again, shoving his sleeve up, exposing the long cut to his eyes. He lays it out in between the both of them. “You call this ‘under control’?”

Bruce feels the anger mounting within, feels Hulk chomping at the bit under his skin, feels his eyes flash green, but he doesn’t really have a response.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well?”

Bruce almost bares his teeth before he catches himself, his behaviour, the fact that the primary reason he’s trying to kill himself in the first place is because when he gets animalistic, he gets bad. He’s too busy fighting his mental battle to really do much other than glare at Clint and let him keep ahold of his exposed arm, rage exploding around all chambers _who are you to lecture me you don’t know what I live with_ with desperate and yet not restraints, trying to keep him reined in.

He’s looking at nothing but Clint, pretty much daring the other man to do something, anything. But Clint seems to be as stubborn as he is right now, and aside from the one word uttered, the sound waves carrying it long gone, he does nothing.

Bruce is so focused on his rage and on Clint that he doesn’t notice when Steve enters the room. He only notices when a third hand enters the picture, and sharply looks up to see him as he gently removes Clint’s hand and pulls Bruce’s sleeve back down. Bruce’s arm snaps back to his side immediately.

“Bruce,” Steve says his name gently, and Bruce can see the concern and pity in his eyes. It just pisses him off further but he refuses to let the Hulk out: he’s the one that needs to be here for this, not him. He lets the rage continue to boil but doesn’t embrace it. “You’re not okay, are you?”

Bruce snorts at that and Hulk snarls.

Behind Steve, Clint crosses his arms. “He clearly isn’t,” he says quietly.

Steve glances over his shoulder. “Maybe you should get the others.”

“No,” Bruce snaps. “That isn’t necessary.”

“We’re a team, Bruce,” Steve says. “Part of being a team is looking out for one another. Everyone here cares about you… we don’t want to see you hurt yourself. Just let us help, please. We all want to.”

“I’m not hurting myself.” He isn’t, really. He’s just trying to help himself. Help the world.

Clint runs a hand down his face in frustration while Steve just looks at him, clearly not following Bruce’s train of thought. The pause gives him a chance to breathe, to calm down. Hulk becomes less vocal, although still clearly not happy.

“I’m just,” he says, rolls his wrist while searching for the word, “tired.”

“Tired?” Steve asks. Bruce notices how he can’t help but look at his arm, as though he can see through the fabric, see the one tangible evidence of his many tries.

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, then promptly shuts it. “Nevermind,” he says, the fight draining from his body, the exhaustion taking over. He’d kept himself teetering on the edge for too long and now the effects of the exertion are presenting themselves. He doesn’t want the anger to resurface again. He just wants to sleep.

Maybe that’s the solution. Stop being proactive. Do nothing but sleep, and maybe he’ll eventually be able to just waste away.

His head drops as he brings up a hand to rub at his eyes. His shoulders are sagging and he actually stumbles, briefly, before finding support along the wall. He’s completely drained and just doesn’t want to fight it anymore, doesn’t want to be a threat, doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Steve puts a hand on his shoulder. “Do you need help getting to bed?” he asks, and Bruce smiles, wondering if Steve really got what he meant.

“Are you going to do anything to yourself tonight,” Clint asks flatly. Bruce just shakes his head.

“Can’t. Nothing I know right now will work. Maybe later, but not as soon as tonight.”

Clint and Steve look at each other, and it becomes clear that he said the wrong thing. He looks back up at them, shrugging Steve’s hand off, and stands up straight again. “What?”

“Back on the helicarrier,” Steve says, “you said you shot yourself, and it didn’t work. Now you’ve tried to bleed out, and it hasn’t worked.” He looks him directly in the eye, and Bruce is awake enough to look right back. “What else have you tried?”

There’s no harm in stating facts, so Bruce rattles off his attempts with ease, counting on his fingers. Jumping, self-immolation, drowning, toxic gases, the venom from poisonous animals, volcano, lying down on a wire. He phrases that last one deliberately, trying to get a reaction out of Steve, rationalizing that maybe he just has to push his teammates away so they’ll just let him go. 

But the soldier’s expression doesn’t change. He maintains the eye contact and says, “So that’s nine different attempts.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “I haven’t tried suffocation yet, or hanging, because I know they won’t work, but one day I’ll get desperate enough to try, and maybe then they will.”

“No,” Clint says.

“We’re not going to let you get that far,” Steve says.

This time, Bruce doesn’t care; he bares his teeth at them, feels the rage fester. “That isn’t for you to decide,” he says softly, but the undertones of a threat are clear in his voice.

“Maybe it wasn’t before, but it is now.” Steve looks at him with his sternest gaze. “You aren’t alone anymore, Bruce. You’re part of a team now, and we all look out for each other. Part of that is seeing you through this.”

“This isn’t an isolated incident,” Bruce snaps. “This isn’t a one time wave.”

“Then we’ll see you through the next one,” Steve replies. “And the one after that. And the one after that. As many times as we have to, the five of us will be here to help you through it.”

“You want to help?” Bruce can hear his voice rising, does his best to keep it low. “You really want to help? Then cut my head off,” he spits out the last five words. “I’m pretty sure that would do the trick.”

“That’s it,” Clint says. “You need to go see a psychiatrist. This isn’t even a choice anymore, Bruce. You have to go to one.”

Bruce smiles at Clint. “Yeah?” he asks, mockingly. “Who’s going to make me?” He remembers life as a minor without his parents, remembers the therapy sessions he’d been forced to go to. He remembers living his mother’s death over and over, remembers experiencing his father’s hands on him even after he’d been sent to the insane asylum, remembers the constant isolation and fear that permeated every single aspect of his life. Remembers suffering everything all over again in great detail. Knows that the only way to truly get rid of it – not to mention his alter ego – is, well, death. “You? Fury? Maybe I’ll just return to the third world instead.”

“We’re not letting you leave,” Steve says. “Tony will make sure of that.”

“So you’re holding me prisoner,” Bruce says. “That’s great, because it really has been a while. I missed that.”

“I guess,” Clint shrugs. “Until you agree to get help. When you’re no longer a threat to yourself.”

Bruce just looks at them. “By existing, I’m a threat to others,” he says. “Why would you want that?”

“You’re not,” Steve says. “You help others. Both you and the other guy.”

He feels the Hulk stir in the back of his mind, as though he’s agreeing. Bruce shakes his head, trying to get rid of him again, at least for now. “No.”

“You aren’t here when he is,” Clint says. “You haven’t seen him in action. He helps. He’s never been a threat to anyone.”

“Oh, so you know him best now? It’s not like he’s with me 24/7 or anything, but no, now _you_ know him.” Bruce sighs. “It’s only a matter of time. I’m just trying to be proactive. Really, I’d be glad to go.”

“But we wouldn’t be,” Steve says. It’s like he’s putting his foot down, ending all discussion on the matter. Giving him an order. “You aren’t going to.”

_I guess we’ll see._


	6. Chapter 6

Steve ends up going back the way he came, back to where the others likely still are, and it gives Bruce a sense of dread. It’s like his stomach has dropped out from under him. It’s not that he’s ashamed, there are a few reasons to keep this secret: so nobody tries to stop him, so nobody gives him lectures or pep talks or pity, so he doesn’t make them feel bad.

The last one isn’t his intention, far from it. It’s just that his removal from this plane of existence would be a net positive.

That and, well, he’s fucking _tired_.

He starts to follow Steve but Clint blocks his way, shaking his head, and Bruce is too drained to really put up much of a fight. He ends up being guided back to his room by the archer instead.

“So, I guess I’m being put on suicide watch then?” he asks, small smile gracing his lips, trying to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work on Clint, and really it’s obvious why – Bruce is probably the only one who’s going to derive any humour from this situation (he’s been at this so long, he’s had to), anyway. “Uh, yeah.”

Bruce nods. “Figures,” he says. “I wasn’t lying back there, though. I honestly am too tired to even try anything tonight.”

Clint just looks at him, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe him. Bruce doesn’t blame him. They carry on in silence until they’re outside Bruce’s door, and there Clint stops.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry for being so abrasive back there. I’m clearly not good at dealing with this sort of thing. But I don’t like seeing my friends in pain, and I consider you a friend.”

“Hmm,” Bruce says. Clint cocks his head at him. “What? I think of you as a friend too.”

“Then why?” Clint asks. “Why this?”

“Because it isn’t about you. I like the Avengers. This has got to be… probably the best time in my entire life, really. But I just can’t deal with all of this anymore. So many lives are in danger when I lose control, so I have to never lose control. But I’m… not really the most stable person.” Bruce smiles shyly, runs a hand through his hair nervously. “I do a good job acting it, but I’m not. And that’s tiring too. So I may not have to be on the run anymore… Hell, I may be regarded as a hero now… But that can all change within a moment’s notice. And I’m just tired of it. Everyone else here gets downtime. I don’t. And I want it. Does that make sense?”

Clint frowns at him. “Then maybe Tony is right. Maybe you have to embrace the other guy more. Because trust me, your status as a hero isn’t going to change.”

Bruce shrugs. “I just don’t see it that way.”

“Look, can you at least do me one favour?” Clint asks. “Can you at least _consider_ seeing a psychiatrist?”

“I’ll consider it,” Bruce says.

They both know it’s a lie.

Bruce spends the entire night lying awake in his bed. He can still feel the gun underneath his pillow; prays that Clint hasn’t spotted it. It isn’t going to do anything to him, but still. It’s nice to have a memento of sorts.

When the sun rises, bringing light through his open window, there’s a knock on his door. Bruce rolls over on his side, willing himself to go to sleep, not really wanting to talk to anyone, but the knock persists until he’s forced to give up. “Yeah,” he says, and the door opens. Thor enters and silently paces over to his bed. He sits down on the corner, so Bruce slips out from under the blankets to join him.

The two sit in silence for a while, watching their shadows form as the sun’s light further invades the room.

“I do not understand,” Thor finally says, his voice quiet.

Bruce doesn’t respond, so Thor continues. “I understand the desire to keep to oneself at times. But to end one’s life?” At this he turns to look directly at Bruce, scanning his entire body with his eyes. “Your life is good,” he says. “You are in good health. You have good company. You have all that one could ever desire.”

“… I don’t,” Bruce replies. “I never have.”

“Is this about your other self?” Thor asks. Bruce nods. “But he is just as good as you. He is my shield brother. There is no reason to shame him.”

“He’s a destructive monster,” Bruce says. “He’s an angry child capable of destroying entire cities. I have to contain him to make sure he doesn’t. It’s exhausting, Thor. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“You do not have to,” Thor says. “I have fought alongside him. He is not what you say he is.”

Bruce shuts his eyes as his hands involuntarily clench into fists. “Why do people keep saying that?” he growls. “He _is_ me. He is all of the anger I’ve ever felt throughout my entire life, and I have a lot of it. Far too much. People with as much anger as me just end up killing and hurting others. I don’t want to be a part of that cycle.”

“What is this cycle you speak of?”

Bruce hesitates, unsure if he wants to go into this. But Thor has only come for answers, so he might as well let him have them. “Cycle of abuse,” he says. “Those who were abused are more likely to become abusers themselves.” Bruce lowers his voice as he continues, “My dad abused me from the moment I was born. My mom defended me. He killed her. I killed him.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to be a part of it anymore. It would be one thing if I was just angry, but the fact that when I’m angry I turn into… him…” his voice trails off helplessly.

“Despite it being over, your anger remains?” Thor asks. He isn’t looking at him anymore, though; he’s staring off into space, seeing something else entirely.

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “When you live with something your entire life, it never leaves you. I’m always going to be angry: at that, at what I am. Carrying this every moment of your existence is tiring. All I want is to rest, nothing more.”

“But you are a warrior,” Thor persists. “A warrior does not surrender.”

“I never wanted to be a warrior,” Bruce says. “It just happened. But I didn’t want it to. I surrendered a long time ago, but the other guy hasn’t let me.”

“So he is the warrior,” Thor says. “It is him who fights, and him who wishes to live. And you are the opposite.”

Bruce nods. “Pretty much.” He smiles softly. “He hates me, really. And I don’t like him much either. But we’re stuck with each other, at least until I can figure out how to…” He stops at that, unsure of how Thor will react to him actually saying it out loud. He’d been careless with his words with Steve and Clint before, and it was clear that he’d upset them. He’s trying to work on that now.

“But I still do not understand,” Thor says, and suddenly he’s back, looking at Bruce again. “There is nothing redeeming in your life? Life is not valuable to you; you do not wish it?”

Bruce bites at his lip. “It isn’t like that,” he says. “I like the Avengers.” He’s saying that twice within a matter of hours, now. “I like all of you guys, and I don’t want any of you to get hurt. But when I compare that to what I’m going through every moment of my existence…” He sighs, fiddles with and stares at his hands for lack of anything better to do.

“There’s a quote,” he finally continues, with Thor looking at him expectantly, “by David Foster Wallace. He was a writer who killed himself. He compared suicide to being trapped up high in a burning building. Pretend you don’t have any powers; lesser strength, lesser endurance, and you can’t fly. You’re stuck high above the ground, and at your back are flames, coming at you. You don’t want to jump – you know you’ll die if you do – but the fire behind you is threatening you, and it’ll kill you too. And the fire comes so close to you that, out of fear of it, you jump. You don’t jump because you want to – you jump because you’re afraid of the fire.”

He’s met with silence, and eventually Bruce looks up at Thor. Thor’s face is unreadable as he considers Bruce’s words. “So you are afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Of him?”

“Of what he can do. And I’m tired of always having to keep him on a leash. Tired of being angry.”

Thor looks at him, sees the dark circles under his eyes. “You should rest now, then. Not by taking your life – I do not wish to see that – but through sleep. Perhaps you will feel better.” Bruce opens his mouth to protest, to explain that _it isn’t like that_ , but Thor beats him to it. “I know that it is not what you truly want, but it will benefit you now. And you have given me much to consider.” He stands to draw the curtains on the window closed before proceeding to the door, Bruce’s eyes following him the entire way.

“But he is still my shield brother,” Thor says, pausing at the door, “and you are still my friend. I would be loathe to lose either one of you.”

With that, he leaves, and Bruce finds himself able to fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

He wakes up in the middle of the night. He lies there for a moment, staring up at a dark, empty ceiling. Then he shuts his eyes.

That’s the benefit a place like this has. He can sleep, relatively uninterrupted. He doesn’t have to worry about extreme weather or the military coming after him: he can just sleep, slip into unconsciousness, fade away. Doesn’t have to think. Doesn’t have to act. He can just be dead to the world.

He lies there until he falls back asleep. Sleep is good.

He wakes again in the morning, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t get up. Just continues to lie there until sleep will inevitably reclaim him once again. Maybe if he can do this long enough, he can just slip out peacefully.

He never figured he’d have a peaceful death.

It’s mid-afternoon when the door opens. The sound – he’s sensitive to sounds now, he’s had to be – startles him awake. He shoots upwards, not here right now – maybe he’s back in the jungle, in the slums, maybe he’s been found—

“Whoa, hey there, big guy.”

Bruce’s shoulders slump. It’s only Tony.

“Uh,” Tony says at the lack of verbal response from Bruce. “It okay to talk?”

Bruce rolls his wrist. “Go ahead.”

“Great,” Tony says. He stands there, taking a moment to gather his words, which is… off-putting. “I get it, you know.”

“What?”

“It. The whole suicide thing. Can I sit?”

“… Yes?”

“Thanks,” Tony says, taking the spot Thor had occupied… however long ago. Bruce feels himself relaxing again, initial surprise having worn off into curiosity. He looks at Tony; Tony looks back at him, gaze open and unguarded. “I mean, I’ve thought of it before. Hell, I tried it. Not as directly as you, mind, and I was already dying anyway but…

“Let me start over.” He taps his arc reactor with a finger. “I’m sure you read about my incident with this thing, right? Palladium, poisoning me, couldn’t live without it, yadda yadda yadda. So I figured, why bother, and acted like a reckless prick. More so than usual. But I was dying, so that was my right, right? Nope. Because I was hurting others in the process of it. You see where I’m going with this?”

Bruce opens his mouth to reply but Tony’s found himself in a nice little groove, so he just keeps going. “I get it. You want to be alone, you want to say ‘fuck the world,’ you want to do your own shit while you wait for the end. Or actively try to cause it, in your case. But the point is you can’t do that. There are other people, and they matter. You don’t get the right to just decide everything for yourself and not take anyone else into consideration. You aren’t alone anymore, and you never will be again. And I know what you’re going to say, ‘Oh, but the Other Guy, it’s because of him I have to kill myself.’ Bullshit, Bruce. That’s bullshit. He saved my life. I know you know that because we told you about it like right after you came back to us. He’s a legitimate part of the team and you don’t get to take that away from us either. Nobody gave you permission. Nobody’s ever _going to_ give you permission.”

Bruce blinks at him. “Wow,” he says. “You done?”

“Maybe. That depends on if you are.” Tony eyes him.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t aware I needed permission to kill myself,” Bruce says, and it’s somewhere between vicious and playful biting.

“Uh yeah. You do. Because you’re a member of the team,” Tony replies without missing a beat. “And I’ve decided just now that we are a officially a democracy. We’ll take a vote. Spoilers, you’re going to lose 5-1.”

Bruce smiles, shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Maybe not,” Tony says, “but it’ll work on you. Because you aren’t going to do anything that’s going to upset us. That’s the kind of guy you are. You’re always hyperaware of everything you say and do. You’re always considering how your actions could affect others. And in the end, that’s what’s gonna stop you. Every time. You aren’t a spiteful bastard like me. I ever mention that? The palladium thing wasn’t the only time I strongly considered it.”

Bruce cocks his head at Tony. “When else?” He hesitates. “In Afghanistan?” he ventures, and Tony laughs.

“Afghanistan? Hell no. I was getting out of there alive no matter what.” He smiles. “More like when I was a kid. Dad was a bastard. Nothing I did was ever good enough. I figured, he didn’t want me around anyway, so I should remove myself from the picture. That that would show him, right? I wrote out the note and was _this close_ ,” he holds his thumb and index finger barely apart, “to going ahead with it before a little voice in my head popped up and told me that if I went ahead with it, he’d have won. And I didn’t want him to win. So I backed off.

“Same thing with you, really. You have to fight it out and live life on your own terms. Then you’ll have won, and you’ll be much happier for it, trust me.”

“Win against what?” Bruce asks. “There isn’t an opponent here, Tony. It’s just me.”

“So against yourself, then. You aren’t the only person to have ever fought with yourself, Bruce. It happens to pretty much all of us. At the core of it all, there’s nothing different. You see a flaw in yourself and you hate it so much you want to kill yourself. Just embrace the flaw.” Tony shrugs. “Hulk’s a lot more cooperative when you let him out on purpose, anyway.”

“Um,” Bruce says, stupidly. “I don’t really know what to say to all that.”

“You say, ‘Gosh, Tony, you’re so right about everything. I will never doubt you and your genius ever again.’ Then you come and make curry for me, because I want curry right now and you’re good at making it.”

It’s like back when they first met. Everyone had been wary of him. They’d tip toed around him, terrified of upsetting him in any way and doing their best not to mention his alter ego. Everyone but Tony who had come in, thrown it in his face, tried to encourage him. And he’d… responded well to that. He’d come back to them after attacking them.

Tony misinterprets his silence. He throws an arm over Bruce’s shoulders, pulling him a bit towards him. “Hey, so you know you’re not alone, right? I’ve been there before. You get low, you just come talk to me.”

Bruce mulls it over. Finally, he says, “So, curry?”

“Yes,” Tony says immediately.

On the way up, they run into Steve, who was heading the opposite direction. Tony hooks his arm around Steve’s and pulls him along with them. “Also, _Undiscovered Country_ ,” he says. “Today’s the day we teach you about the Cold War, Cap.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“Wouldn’t it be better to just give him a book?” Bruce suggests.

Tony shakes his head. “Nope. Reading’s boring. Why read when you can watch?”

“I like reading,” Steve protests.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to start him off with what actually happened as opposed to an allegory?” Bruce asks.

“Maybe,” Tony says, “but it’s more fun this way. Also I roped Natasha in, so she can answer questions from the Russian point of view. That’s way more interesting. He can read after.”

“Weren’t you doing this with Thor?” Steve asks. “He isn’t here. Shouldn’t you wait for him?”

“Wait, where’s Thor?” Bruce asks. Steve does a double take, like he’s realizing for the first time that Bruce is walking alongside him and participating in a normal conversation, before shaking it off.

“He went back to Asgard yesterday,” Steve answers. “He said he wouldn’t be long, but he didn’t say when he’d be back.”

“Probably wants to watch _Final Frontier_ first anyway. Ugh,” Tony spits. “Screw him. Come on, Bruce is making us lunch anyway.”

“You are?”

“Apparently.”

It’s not that Bruce feels a whole lot better. He’s much more rested, though, and feels like he’s capable of doing more now. His body feels rejuvenated, and though his mind is still considering different ways to snuff out its own existence, it’s at conflict with itself now: Clint’s calling him out, Steve’s steady presence, Thor’s desire to understand, Tony’s empathy all mix together in his head, along with all of them stressing that he isn’t alone. He’s half-focused on trying to determine a dosage that would render the Hulk completely useless, half-focused on the teammates surrounding him.

The afternoon ends with Tony throwing a tablet with the Wikipedia page for the Cold War loaded on it at Steve’s head and stomping off in frustration. Clint grins and follows after him while Steve blushes, apologizes to Natasha and Bruce, and retreats in the opposite direction for an area guaranteed to be much quieter. This leaves the two of them alone in a room together for the first time since Bruce was caught. He thinks about fleeing – _No harm in going back to the southeast_ \- when Natasha speaks up.

“You know,” she says, and he raises his head to look at her, “at first I was against you being here. I didn’t trust you: you were too much of a question mark. You were dangerous and a massive flight risk.”

“Uh,” Bruce says, wondering if she can read minds. It wouldn’t surprise him.

“There was one incident, though, that erased all the doubts I had.” He thinks back over their previous interactions: him threatening her, him chasing her through the helicarrier.

“All of them?” he asks, tone disbelieving. “After what I’ve done in the past? After what I’ve done to _you_?”

Natasha fixes him with the strongest gaze he’s ever seen from her. “Yeah. I’ll… admit it was unnerving,” _and that never happens to me_ goes unspoken, “but understandable.

“There was one fight, sometime after the Chitauri,” she continues. “An RPG was fired right at me. I didn’t notice it until too late – and suddenly there was a big green blur above me. He was leaning over me, shielding me with his body as he took the entire blast to the back. And when the explosion cleared, he grinned at me. It was as though he was proud of himself for doing that, and happy to see me unharmed. He then patted me on the back like he was telling me to get back in the fight, and was gone as quick as he’d come in.” She smiles. “That’s when I knew he was an ally. You both are.”

She gets up at that and walks over to him, reaches for his back, and pats it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she says. “You’ll always be an Avenger. And it’s nice to know that at least one of us is indestructible.” With that, she leaves, headed out the same way Steve went.

Bruce watches her go, the ghost of her hand still against his back.


	8. Chapter 8

Bruce has had a lifetime to perfect a mask. He’s had to: it minimized the abuse, it gave him new identities, it allowed him to run, it kept him away from questions.

So he utilizes it now to cover up the panic he feels escalating inside him. He’s retreated back to his lab and is sitting at a desk, stoic. His breathing is even enough but he can feel the other guy’s concern within him, him itching to get out and smash whatever it is that is stressing him out except it’s _intangible_ and _not possible_ and this isn’t the kind of thing he can protect him from, this is the kind of thing that he ruins.

His eyes waver briefly in betrayal of his inner emotions before setting themselves again.

People don’t get close to him. They just _don’t_. Because he’s a monster; because he’s the reason everything goes wrong. The last time someone got close to him he’d put her in immediate danger, turned her into a fugitive, and who knows what might be wrong now with the sure to be ever-continuing issues her maniac father has. (If he hadn’t come back then everything would probably be normal for her still, less anguish on her end, better off without him.) The last time someone got close to him before her, she’d ended up dead.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, he knows it, but he can’t help it. That’s what his life has been: an endless curse, born only to destroy and suffer. His arm itches and it’s too tangible, he needs something better. He should raid Steve’s medicine cabinet if he has one because whatever works on Steve should work on him.

Steve. Steve could probably hold him off for a bit, but he’d tire out before the other guy would, and then it wouldn’t be any better for him. If Tony could get to his suit in time, he’d have a fighting chance, but that doesn’t change the fact that the other guy would probably be able to snatch him out of midair and crush him in his fist regardless. Clint and Natasha wouldn’t even have a hope in hell.

It’s stressing him out and he feels him directly under his skin and he needs to stop thinking about this but it’s all he can think about. How much of a danger he is. He’s let them all in and they’re going to end up dying for it because _that’s just how his life works_.

He grabs at a piece of paper and a pen (Tony would yell at him for this but it feels familiar, like back in school when he was alone and nobody wanted to be around him and he didn’t want to be around anybody else – he was a freak and he’d lived enough of life to know that all people did was _hurt_ anyway) and starts scribbling equations on it. They don’t mean anything, they don’t relate to him, but he just does it and it’s soothing. The other guy doesn’t get it, has no clue what he’s doing, but he can feel his heart rate return to a normal level and the itch fades until he’s slumped over, passed out on top of the paper.

When he comes to he finds himself staring at a word he’d written down in his fever: _leave_. It’s there right next to notes on the Stefan-Boltzmann law, the constant, degrading further into Boltzmann’s own constant and he smiles at that, reflecting on the physicist’s argument for the likelihood of more chaos than order and the fact that he’d committed suicide. If nothing else, at least his subconscious - _his_ , not the other guy’s – and his consciousness seem to be on the same page.

He could always find blood thinners and open up more than one artery. Have a poisonous feast for himself: plants, animal venom, alcohol, drugs of both counter and street variety; enough to figure out a way to overwhelm his system. _Something._

But if he goes, he’ll have the best chance of properly starving himself, and maybe that would actually work. It would be long and slow but for once not violent, and hopefully enough to completely weaken the other guy and stop him from being able to come out.

Because he can’t stay. And if he can’t stay, then he doesn’t really want to do much else. He’d always made it clear that the possibility of him running back to the third world to help out there was a real one, but at the same time, his words had always implied that he’d come back to the Avengers at some point as well. But he can’t do that: they trust him implicitly, with their very lives, and that’s going to end up resulting in their deaths.

He needs to kill himself before he inadvertently kills them. There’s no other option.

The more he thinks about it, the more enticing the idea of starvation becomes. He could make it peaceful. He’d entered the world in chaos and anger, but he’d be able to leave it under his own terms: calm and orderly. The appeal is massive. It would be a new experience, and one he’s craved his entire life.

His mind is working through the possibilities. No flights, but he can always trek back down to South America and avoid humanity there. He could waste away isolated. The image of his bones resting undisturbed, nestled in the crook of some valley comes to him, and he finds that he really likes it.

He needs to find a way to get out without being noticed.

There’s no way Tony won’t notice.

Or Clint, if he’s still being watched. He can’t be certain – not anymore, not since Natasha’s reveal that SHIELD had kept tabs on him all this time (and that’s just another reason to get out of this life, because he knows there are groups out there that view him as a weapon, and he can’t let them get him) – but he knows that it’s likely.

But if he can just get out of the Tower undetected – out of New York undetected – then he should be okay. He can take this one last journey, trek down the continent in peace, and then finally – finally – rest.

Because he’s sure that this will work. It has to. And if not… he can find another way. _Will_ find another way. Combine things. Develop something. Everything dies eventually, he’s just looking to speed up the process so nobody gets hurt.

Because if he stays around much longer, he’s definitely going to end up hurting the people he cares about. He’s a teammate until he’s not: by default, he, and by extension, the Hulk, are loners. There’s no reason to believe that the Avengers will be permanent.

It’s for the best. He can already feel it inside himself. He knows he’s going to turn on them, and it’s just a matter of time.

People don’t get close to him. People don’t get close to monsters. Every time they do, they suffer. They die.

He stands, exits the lab. Takes an elevator down to the lobby. Steps into the outside world.

It’s drizzling, but it feels freeing. He takes in a breath of the air, and it’s clogged with pollution, but it still smells as sweet as ever.

He takes a step forwards, expecting to be stopped. Then another, and another, and another. He’s lived a while now without having to look over his shoulder, but the instinct comes rushing back. He’s still fully expecting someone to come out and grab him, force him back inside, tell him that he can’t just go running out wherever, but nobody does.

The rain picks up force, and he soon finds the streets to himself. He doesn’t have a need for shelter. Never did. It never worked out for him.

He’s blocks away the first time he hears thunder rumbling from the clouds above.

Then a flash of lightning, and… 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

“Bruce,” Thor says, approaching him, just as unaffected by the rain as he is. Bruce takes a moment to size him up: he’d likely be a better fight than Steve, and it would be interesting to see who tires out first. But at best, it would be a draw. Still not the greatest prognosis or deterrent.

Bruce looks up at Thor and takes a moment to acknowledge their height difference. It’s great, really: who would have ever thought that _he_ could take on the God of Thunder? _Look at me now, Dad._

“I took heed of your words,” Thor continues, and with each passing syllable Bruce feels his agitation grow. He has a plan in mind, he thinks that he is genuinely happy, will enjoy executing it, and just wants to go, to _leave_. “I went to see Loki. I know his youth was pleasurable, but it was one fraught with lies from Father. As you spoke of your own, and how the pain is remains, I went to speak with Loki about his, so perhaps he could begin to heal.”

“And?” Bruce asks, more out of politeness than desire to actually know. His legs itch to walk.

Thor frowns. “He refused me. My brother denied me my presence; my words. He remains my brother, but… I am not his.”

“I’m sorry,” the words automatically slip from Bruce’s mouth.

Thor’s face darkens. “You are not,” he says, reaching out to prod Bruce in the chest accusingly with a massive finger. Bruce takes an involuntary step backwards, eyes suddenly sharp and focused on this threat. “Your words mean little now. I know you intend to flee, and once gone, you will resume devising a means with which to end your life. If you meant what you say, then you would not do this.”

Bruce sighs in frustration. He reaches up with a hand to run it through his hair, sleeve slipping, revealing the scarring tissue. “Thor, it isn’t—“

“No,” Thor says, waving a hand, cutting him off. “You spoke of a cycle, and how you are a part of it. That is why you run? You believe you will hurt us?”

Bruce can feel it underneath him; can feel the Hulk watching. He doesn’t know how to treat this situation: he sees a friend, but Bruce sees a potential threat, and there’s no telling how he will react when unleashed. “Yes.”

Thor smiles without humour. “The battle would be great, but I do not wish for it to occur.” He looks towards the Tower. “The Captain came to us one night not too long ago. The One with the Eyes of a Hawk joined him, and made note of people of SHIELD who could help. He described his own experiences, and the Widow seconded him.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Psychiatrists. No. I had them when I was a kid. They did more bad than good. I’m not going back to one.”

“The cycle,” Thor says. “Your father inflicted it upon you, correct? Did he ever seek aid?”

Bruce has to stop and think that over. Between the empty and smashed bottles always around the house, the bruises, the black eyes and the blood, there was never any reprieve. “I don’t think so,” he says, cautiously, not certain if he likes where Thor is headed.

“Then he was doomed to repeat it,” Thor says. “He had no desire to break it. But you do. That is why you wish to end yourself: you do not wish to harm others, and every time you do – although it is not on purpose – it hurts you further.” At this Thor steps closer, brings an arm around Bruce’s back, and looks him in the eye. “But I implore of you: this is an alternative method. One that will prevent you from harming both yourself and others. You are a child no more. I know this will do you good, if only you will listen to me. I will not see another brother tear himself to ruins.”

That’s when Bruce catches the waver in Thor’s eyes. It’s brief, but for a moment he can see him back on Asgard, pleading with Loki and being refused at every try. He thinks back to nights previous, how this is the first time Thor has touched him since falling asleep on top of him, using his own body to shield him, keeping him close.

He still wants to leave, but it wouldn’t be right.

His feet start to move in the opposite direction, back towards the Tower. He feels the rain ease up on them as he says, “Okay.”


End file.
